


Icicles

by Dillian



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dillian/pseuds/Dillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for prompt:  <i>”Younger Loki and Thor. One day, after not having seen each other for a couple of weeks due to hunting/adventuring/whatever, Loki gifts Thor an icicle that will never melt (hinting at his Jotunn heritage).”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Icicles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaimeryanRei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaimeryanRei/gifts).



**_Thor_ , and all situations and characters thereof, belong strictly and solely to Marvel Comics. This is a fan-work, meant for enjoyment only, and not for any material profit.**

Midgard is a place alternately shrouded in snow, and baking under hot, hot summer sun. It is Jotunheim and Muspelheim, and only rarely, on the very sweetest days of spring, the crispest days of friendly autumn, does it come close to fair Asgard. On Midgard, every season has its time, and mortals tell legends about them. In spring the Young God is born, boy of fire, child of Allfather and his wife Frigga. Summer is the time of his lusty manhood. Autumn bears fruit in measure according to the generosity of his life-giving seed, and winter is the time when he dies, to be reborn again the following spring. Thus do the mortals, limited beings that they are, understand their world through the gods.

But how can there be winter in Asgard, which is home of all the gods? How, where they live, always strong, always healthy and young by grace of Idunn’s orchard, can there be such a time of death and sleeping?

And sure enough, winter here is brief. It is a sport, a gift from Lord Odin, highest of all the gods, for the enjoyment of his fellows. And they do enjoy it, and none more so than the young god Thor, boy of fire, Child of Promise by the limited understanding of the Midgardians (and by the fond hopes of his parents as well). Thor, of the golden hair, his red cloak warm, like fire against the white snow. Thor, with the flash of blue eyes, the white, white smile, when he turns, catches sight of his parents watching him from the window. …Thor, and behind him, tagging always, like a shadow, the boy Loki.

Frigga has the window open, the better to watch over her children while they play. Inside, the banquet hall gleams. Green sheaves of holly, red berries dotted, on the gold tables. Evergreens against the gold walls, and the mistletoe, Loki’s bush, white berries against the cramped, weazened leaves, tiny hint of doubt and threat, here amid the life and plenty of Asgard. And like a heart, the Yule log, Odin’s flame on the hearth, beckoning all, in friendly warmth.

Outside, the cold. Bare oaks (Thor’s trees), and the boys running beneath them. The sound of their laughter, floats toward the window, the tiny crash of makeshift weapons, meeting in pretend-combat. Loki has an icicle. And the pipe of his voice: “Ware my blade, brother.”

“Wouldst thou fight so?” Thor, less inventive but braver, climbs an oak tree and, from a projecting branch, leans out to grab and pull down an icicle of his own.

Frigga, inside, makes to warn him. “Watch thyself, son.”

And from her husband immediately, “Hush, wife. If the boy falls, he will learn from it.”

But Thor does not fall. He grasps his weapon, drops to the ground to face Loki again. “I will meet force with force.”

Once, do their cold blades clash, and again. The icicles hold strong, for the freeze is hard in fair Asgard, by Allfather’s generosity. Because he knows his subjects enjoy it? Or for Thor’s sake? Perhaps it is his gift for Loki, in honor of his Jotun heritage… His heritage, still close-guarded, a secret that one day he will tell the boy, one day, when the time is right. 

…Below the window, the blades clash again. “Best surrender, brother.” Thor’s voice. “I will have the victory as always.”

And Loki’s voice: “You are o’erconfident.” Fierce onslaught by the little figure in the green coat, his hair the color of bare tree trunks. “Such confidence will be your undoing.” And he attacks.

And the clash of blades, once, again, another time. Then a thump, as Thor drops his weapon onto the snow. “My hand grows cold. Come brother, let us go in and warm ourselves before more combat.”

Thor, confident as always, that Loki will take lead from him, but this time he is surprised, and the smaller boy leaps on him, icicle-blade still in motion. And Thor is borne to the ground by the force of attack, forced to surrender, and Loki pushes a handful of snow into his mouth, boyhood’s symbol of victory, then lets him up. “Confess it, I defeated you…” In his hand, the icicle-blade, still hard and unmelted.

Thor spits dirt, dead oak leaves and snow as he stands. He adjusts his clothing, turns his radiant smile toward his brother. “I let you win.”

“No…” Still, Loki carries the blade and, still, it is unmelted.

And they round a corner, and the wall of the palace Hlidskailf blocks sound of their voices. ‘My hand got cold.” Barely, Odin hears Thor say it and, “Why didn’t yours?”

Perhaps Frigga, inside, notes her younger son's weapon. “It’s time to tell him,” she says.

Her husband looks at her. “Loki? He is too young.”

And Frigga goes to him. Mother goddess and Father god, side-by-side, in the warmth of the fire, in the light of the golden walls of Hlidskailf, fair jewel at the heart of Asgard. “He understands more than you think, and if you’re not careful, your chance will pass.”

Odin’s arm around her shoulder tightens. “There will be other chances.” Gentle-handed, he tilts Frigga’s head onto his shoulder, and strokes her golden hair. And after a while the children come in and join them.


End file.
